


take the white pill (you'll feel alright)

by queendromeda



Series: i don't want to rest in peace [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Masochism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Power Dynamics, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 05, Under-negotiated Kink, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 04:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18461231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: In his defense, Bruce doesn't mean to sleep with the Scarecrow.





	take the white pill (you'll feel alright)

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written smut before, so please bear with me.

They end up falling to the ground. Bruce wasn't sure who pushed who, but somehow they landed together, partially intertwined, the crash echoing throughout the abandoned cathedral. The landing was not at all gentle and the marble floor was far from forgiving on Bruce's already sore body. His one saving grace, if it could be considered that, was the fact that his fall was mostly broken with Crane's body, who laid still and groaning beneath him.

Bruce pushed himself up slowly, wary of the headrush that he knew would follow. He tossed one leg over Crane, the other he kept bent at the side, bracketing him, leaving Bruce in the uncomfortable position of half-straddling, half-crouching above him. It wasn't exactly an ideal situation to be in, but he had the upper hand — literally. He wrapped his hands around Crane's arms, surprised to feel muscles underneath his burlap, patchwork mess of a costume. Hopefully, he'd be able to keep him contained long enough that he could make it out of the church with major incident.

Crane blinked at him through bleary eyes, his groaning finally cutting out as he seemed to take stock of the situation. Everything about him screamed fatigue — greasy, tangled hair and hollowed cheeks and dark, purple bruises under his eyes — but Bruce could hardly criticize considering he probably looked about the same, if not worse. Despite his clear exhaustion, however, there was nothing defeated in his face.

For Bruce, that did not bode well.

Crane sneered up at him, his nose crinkling in distaste, and asked, "Well, billionaire boy, you gonna do something or just keep staring?"

He sounded out of breath, almost wheezy, probably from the fall and from the weight of Bruce settled on top of him, but somehow he managed to keep the mocking edge to his voice, his perceived superiority dripping from each word that fell from his mouth. Bruce hardly knew Crane — he'd only interacted with him a handful of times since the city fell into chaos, each time at Jim's behest, with the might of the GCPD at his back — and he would hardly count him amongst the other, more personal monsters that haunted his mind — Malone, Theo, Jerome, Ra's, Jeremiah, Jerome, Jeremiah, Jerome, Jerome, _Jerome_ — but, at that moment, he hated him more than any of them.

He was so tired of Gotham City and its revolving cast of monsters. He felt worn down to his bones, stripped of his senses. He knew, of course, that more than anything Crane needed help. That he needed to be taken somewhere that would put his mental health first, somewhere he wouldn't be subjected to ice baths and electroshock treatments and whatever else the doctors at Gotham Asylum used against him, and Bruce wished that he could have helped him. He wished he could have stopped another kid from falling victim to Gotham, but he couldn't and he didn't and now Crane was just another boogeyman people whispered about on daytime television and true crime shows.

Bruce was sitting on top of him, holding him down, and while he wished he could have helped him — done something, anything, everything — he still hated him. He hated him for making it so easy to want to hurt him. He hated him for so easily picking his way under his skin. He hated him for reminding Bruce that through his anger he could be just as monstrous, just as transformed, as anyone else in the hellhole they called home. He hated him because he was there, pliant, or near enough, under him. He hated him for his mocking voice and pretentious air, but, most of all, he hated him because he had no one else to hate at that moment.

Jerome was dead, Jeremiah was missing, and Bruce was left alone in a church with Jonathan Crane, overflowing with fury — it was spilling out of him, slowly at first, like he was a leaking faucet, but then it started to come faster and faster, flooding out of him, drowning out all reason, leaving him with nothing but his hatred and his rage and, more than anything, his overwhelming shame.

"Well?" Crane repeated, haughty impatience dripping from his mouth, coming to him, it seemed, as easily as breathing. "I'd ask if Cat got your tongue, but everyone knows that Jeremiah shot her already."

Bruce must have done something — something must have shown on his face or perhaps he tightened his grip on Crane's arms — at the mention of Selina — the mention of Jeremiah. It was a sore point for him. _They_  were a sore point for him: Jeremiah and Selina. Just the thought of them — both — either — sent a livewire of emotions surging through his chest. Hearing about one of the most fracturing moments of his life from the mouth of a stranger, an outsider, made something twist unpleasantly in his stomach.

Crane laughed suddenly, the sound deeper than Bruce would have expected, but, par the course, was filled with more cruelty than humor. "Did I tread upon a sore spot? Oh, baby, I swear it was an accident." He hummed, smiling beatifically up at him, the effect somewhat dampened by the blood on his teeth. "What would little ol' me even know about a little… animal cruelty?"

Bruce hissed through his teeth, biting down on his tongue to keep his own vitriol back. It would be easy, he thought, to hurt him while he was pinned down beneath him. He already knew that Crane was out of his gas, and he wasn't exactly known for his combat abilities. It was tempting — beyond tempting, really — far more than it should have been, but Bruce was tired and Crane was grating and, lately, there hadn't been enough petty criminal groupies of Jeremiah hanging around for him to beat up — again he was left wondering what exactly it said about him that his preferred method for anger management was assault, no matter how many justifications he threw over it.

More than anything Bruce wished that Crane would shut up. It would be easier to deal with him — how he would deal with him, he was still muddling through — if he stopped clouding his brain with his incessant comments.

"C'mon, _c'mon_. Don't leave me hanging." Crane continued, either ignoring Bruce's rising anger or just not caring about it. "You know, you could say that the anticipation is leaving me paralyzed."

The laughter, Bruce decided, was the worst part of it all. It had to have been calculated. Crane was clever that way. He knew how to work on people. He liked to figure out what made them tick, what made them angry, what frightened them. Bruce was in a lot of ways an open book — every awful experience he'd had over the last few months was spilling out in bloodstains onto the pages. It was easy to pick at him.

Unfortunately for Crane, the more he picked, the more Bruce's self-control slipped away into nothing. He pulled his hands off of his arms, instead moving one up to yank at Crane's hair — surprisingly soft despite its unkemptness — his fingers roughly threading through it, forcing his head up from the marble floor, before slamming it back down. The sound echoed beautifully. He kept his fingers wound through his hair, tempted to slam his head down again. The other hand he pushed against Crane's chest, an unspoken warning not to move.

Crane's face first fell slack in shock, before screwing up in pain, his eyes squinting up unforgivingly at Bruce, watery and blurred and dazed. His voice, while vaguely accusatory, rang with something close to admiration. Or, maybe, that was just wishful thinking on Bruce's part. "That was ungentlemanly. I had no idea this was that kind of date, baby."

"You should watch your mouth," Bruce said, his voice close to a growl, leaving him unsure if he had ever sounded so plainly threatening — if his self-restraint had ever been lower.

Crane smiled at him again, the gleam that had been in his eyes previously cottoned by the still dazed expression on his face. "Should I really? Wouldn't that be a waste when you seem to be having a grand old time watching it for me?"

In the general scheme of things, and when considering everything else Crane said to him thus far, that comment wasn't even particularly awful. Still, something about it ate its way under Bruce's skin, burrowing itself into his head alongside a million other innocuous remarks. Something about it must have been too much, though. Maybe he was still too angry. Maybe something about Crane made him a little more willing to use his half-shoved away brutality. Maybe he liked the slightly faraway look in Crane's eyes. Whatever the case, he yanked on his hair again, not slamming his head down this time, but sure that the threat of it hung over him.

Crane's face crinkled up as Bruce pulled, his mouth shaping itself into a grimace, and his neck extended out, long and unblemished and unfairly captivating. He wasn't sure what it was that caught his attention until he tugged a bit harder and watched as Crane's mouth slid open even further, his tongue caught between his teeth, like he was holding something back — and Bruce couldn't help but think, vaguely, his thoughts hardly more than wisps of smoke, that it was so unfair, so rude, of Crane to withhold whatever it was he was withholding when he was the only other person there — so he tugged harder still, drawing his head higher up and his neck farther out, and with that last final tug Crane's hips shifted slightly — it was barely a twitch and Bruce wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been settled over him — and something damningly close to a whine slid out from behind his clenched teeth, and Bruce realized, with a start, that Crane was enjoying what was being done to him.

The sudden awareness Bruce had for Crane's reactions settled over him, as gentle as being dragged below the current of a river, turning his limbs to lead as he tried to process the shift the situation took. It was unsettling, he decided, to think that Crane could have been on a completely different train of thought for the entire conversation they shared. Even more so, it was unsettling him that, even knowing what he now knew, he didn't want to scramble off of him or loosen his grip on his hair or any of the dozen other things he should have done upon his realization.

No, Bruce did not do anything of the sensible things he should have done.

Instead, he just stared down at him, grateful that Crane had his eyes pinched shut, certain that it was his eyes that were dazed now — and, though he hated to admit it, probably filled with more wonder than the situation deserved. He barely gave himself a second to think before he decided to throw every single reasonable thought in his head away. He was far too hung up on the idea of hearing the faint whine that escaped Crane's mouth again — of _causing_ a faint whine to escape his mouth again.

The very idea of it was wrapping itself around his head, clouding his thoughts, making it hard to focus. Or, really, if he was going to be honest, the situation itself was making it hard to think — the fact that Jonathan Crane enjoyed what was happening — that he enjoyed Bruce's hand tugging on his hair — that he didn't want Bruce to know that he enjoyed it.

And what, exactly, did Bruce think about that?

Fascinating.

It was fascinating — _he_ was fascinating. The awareness of his enjoyment left Bruce with a strange, mismatched amount of pride and bashfulness, and with a warm, twisting feeling growing low in his stomach that he did his best to ignore.

Once again, he tugged on his hair. He pulled hard enough that his own scalp twinged in sympathy, but, beyond a sharp, pained intake of breath, Crane remained as he was: his face screwed up in discomfort, his tongue peeking out between his teeth, eyes shut. It was disappointing. Bruce had been expecting something dramatic in the wake of his realization, a half-muddled daydream he let be constructed in the few moments that had passed. He let go of Crane's hair, letting his head drop back against the marble floor, not gentle by any means but with none of the force he'd used when slamming his head down earlier. Slowly, Crane's face relaxed again, all the lines smoothing out, his jaw working as he unclenched his teeth.

"That wasn't very nice of you," Crane said after a beat passed, long enough to see if Bruce would try something new. His eyes were blurred, like before, but now he knew it was from arousal and not pain, or at least not entirely from pain.

"No one ever said that I was nice," Bruce lied, words coming to him slowly as if being dragged through molasses.

"Baby," Crane said, somehow managing to sound disappointed and amused all at once. "There's no need to lie to me. What's got you all worked up? Was it something I said?"

Crane had to know that he knew, Bruce decided. He had to have been playing with him, reshuffling the deck and dealing for a new game before Bruce had the time to process the last one. His arousal wasn't fake — at least he assumed so, hoped so, maybe, secretly, as there was something nourishing about being wanted by others, something to be cherished about that awareness — but his lack of acknowledgment, his projected blamelessness for his part in catching Bruce's interest, that was fake. Calculated disinterest. He slipped up when Bruce was tugging on his hair and now he needed Bruce to be the one to bring it up so he could twist the story around until up was down and down was up.

Another moment passed, and he realized that, more than anything else, the thing Crane needed the most in the world was control.

He decided to give it to him — control, or at least some semblance of it.

"Not exactly," Bruce answered at long last, uncomfortably aware of how thick his voice had become. He brought a hand up to rest over Crane's neck, his fingers twitching slightly as they spread out over smooth skin, not applying any pressure, but hanging the threat of it over him.

Crane's pulse picked up. And yet, he still just he stared up at Bruce, appearing, for all intents and purposes, as composed as ever. "Sounds like you have something you need to get off your chest. Wanna share? I swear I'm a good listener. It's not like anyone will hear your secrets from me, baby. I ain't got nobody to gossip with."

Bruce didn't move his hand. He let his voice grow softer, hiding all the bristling edges to the best of his ability. "I think you're selling yourself short. I bet you were a hit in Arkham. You made friends easily enough, didn't you?"

For the first time since their ill-fated meeting in the church, something other than cool self-assurance flickered across Crane's face. Disgust. "Friends," he repeated slowly as if hearing the word for the first time. "That's right. How could I forget about all the lovely, little friends I made in Arkham? Silly of me."

His fingers twitched as he felt Crane's pulse pick up even faster. He pushed his palm down over the hollow of his throat, hardly exerting any pressure, but enough to serve as a warning to calm himself. Somehow, without even meaning to, he'd dug his way into one of Crane's sore spots. The realization was more bitter than he'd imagined it would be.

"Friends," Bruce repeated, his voice ringing with an unspoken agreement. "What else would you call Jerome Valeska and Jervis Tetch?"

"An ally," Crane said with consideration before he let his lip curl in distaste. "A necessary evil."

"Which is which?"

Crane glared at him, something close to derision gleaming in his eyes. "Take a wild guess."

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. Bruce had only wanted to rile him up a little, draw him back to that moment when the whine slid out of his mouth. Instead, he hit on something important. He needed to tread lightly, he decided. There was something fragile — shattered pieces barely taped together — peaking through in the line of Crane's jaw, the purse of his lips, the glint in his eyes that screamed at Bruce to listen to him —  _look at me. look at me. please. please, see me_ — wretchedly hopeless and helpless in equal measure, buried underneath years of being ignored and turned aside.

He just needed some to hear him. He wasn't asking for understanding — he wasn't asking for anything at all, really — and, despite himself, Bruce's bleeding heat won out again.

He decided to feign cluelessness. Things would go smoother if Crane opened up at his own pace. "Seems like a toss-up to me. Though I doubt anyone has ever called Jerome Valeska a necessary evil before."

That came out brittler than he intended.

Crane seemed to notice as well, judging by the slight raise of his brows, the amused twist to his mouth. "Jerome was just a man. Equal parts violent and charismatic, maybe, but still." His face darkened, something heavy edging his words. "Tetch was a different beast entirely."

That was important. He didn't know how yet, but he would. He held onto Crane's word choice. Humanizing elements for Jerome — which, violent? Sure. Charismatic? He couldn't see it — and monstrous ones for Tetch. Not Jervis, just Tetch. A lack of familiarity. Bruce tried to muddle through everything he remembered about the short-lived Legion of Horribles, but nothing he could think of pointed towards internal dysfunction.

Still, he worked the words through his mind —  _a different beast entirely_ — something cold sliding through his veins. He was on the edge of an epiphany he wasn't sure he wanted to reach. He was balancing on a tightrope made of spider silk and he could feel the thread wearing down under his feet.

Keep it lighthearted, he thought. Don't catch on too quickly.

"You all seemed close enough from a distance," he needled, stroking one of his fingers under and along Crane's jaw, only vaguely aware of the action.

"It's hard not to be close to someone who specializes in hypnosis, isn't it? I mean, really, what would be an appropriate alternative?"

With that, Bruce froze fully. All of the warning bells in his head going off at once, a cacophony of white-hot panic shooting through his head. Murky, half-buried memories came flooding back. He thought about the Temple. The cold cell. Shaman with his old eyes, cruel eyes, and his certainty — complete faith that Bruce would be what he needed — what the court needed — complete faith that he could transform him completely. He thought about his father's cufflinks, such a little thing, lost forever. He thought about the nothingness of it all. That huge gaping pit in his chest that swallowed everything, drowning out his reason and doubts and conviction, taking everything from him other than the clear, sickly sweet relief of being commanded, cleanly absolved from his actions, his atrocities — what a lie.

_You will become the perfect weapon, for you will do whatever I say, won't you?_

What had he said? What had he wanted? Were they one and the same?

( _yes—yes—yes_ )

He couldn't detach himself from the past fast enough. His concern flooded out, unprompted. Something between them wavered. "Tetch used his— he controlled you?"

Crane blinked at him, slowly. The calculating gleam in his eyes hidden behind long lashes. He could probably feel the new shakiness in Bruce's hand, see the vaguely shoved aside panic in his face. When he answered, he sounded hollowly apologetic. "No. At least, not that I'm aware of. That's sort of the point of hypnotism, isn't it? That you don't know what's happening to you. That you don't have control."

That, at least, explained his discomfort.

"The locking away of reality," Bruce whispered, more to himself than to Crane, his mind miles away, stuck in a mansion on the outskirts of Gotham, wrinkled hands on his face.

"I guess," Crane agreed, before falling silent. He watched him for a long moment as if trying to puzzle through his reactions, his odd intensity to the idea of being mind controlled. "Something else you want to add, baby?"

Was there? What else could he say without striping his own soul bare? Bruce wanted to scream. He could feel it building low in his chest, an itch spreading through his limbs. He thought about his finger resting over the trigger that would release the Tetch Virus. He thought about the sword he shoved through Alfred's chest. He thought about control, or the lack thereof. What could be worse than being forced to go against your own brain, your own heart? He wanted, inexplicably, to dump all his hidden, half-forgotten parts onto Crane. He wanted to let him know that he saw him. He wanted to tell him that he understood.

He, of course, did not do any of that.

Instead, he forced himself to look slightly to the left of him, unable to meet his eyes and said to him what he wished someone had said to him. "I'm sorry that that happened to you."

The words echoed, spiraling out and transforming, becoming more than just an apology: _I'm sorry that that happened to you_ — _I'm sorry about what could have happened to you_ — _I'm sorry that you don't know_ — _I'm sorry that you'll never know_ — _I'm sorry_.

Crane stilled under him, appearing, for the first time, to be less than composed.

Then he laughed, though it lacked the same scornful edge it had earlier, its cruelty somewhat dampened by the brief flickering of awe that painted his face a moment before. "Oh please, don't get all pussyfooted on me now, baby. We almost had a good thing, didn't we? Go on, pull my hair again. I know you liked that."

The attitude, his sudden excitement, was fake, but not unappreciated. Bruce felt half-dissolved from the emotional whiplash he'd just undergone. He wondered if Crane felt the same. In the end, he supposed it didn't matter if he did or didn't, either way, he offered an out from the conversation, a smooth transition of selves. Bruce tightened his grip on his neck, pushing into tendons, warm skin dragging under the pads of his fingers. Crane's pulse picked up even further.

"Who said I liked it?" He said at long last, watching Crane carefully for any sign that he wanted him to stop. "You seem awfully preoccupied with the thought, though."

He stared at Bruce, his eyes growing darker by the second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips — and Bruce realized two things then. One, that he wanted to have Crane's lip between his teeth, wanted to know how he tasted, wanted to swallow down any sound he made, wanted to see his pretty and proud face absolutely wrecked, wanted so much — too much — and two, that he'd just lost a game he hadn't known they'd been playing.

"I think," Crane said, his voice very low, "That you're scared by this."

Bruce leaned down close enough that his breath was fanning across his face. "Funny," he said, feeling the heat start to pool in his stomach again, squeezing down tighter on his neck. "I was going to say the same thing to you."

Crane let out a startled, wheezing groan at the added pressure, his voice strained. His voice strained because of _Bruce_. The thought made him want to squirm. "Oh, baby, c'mon. We both know you don't have the guts."

He hummed. "I think that I like you better when you don't talk."

Then he pushed down harder, his fingers digging into skin, soft and yielding, Crane's pulse was a buzzing reminder under his hand. Already he could make out angry red marks blooming across his neck. Distantly, he found himself wishing that they'd bruise, leaving behind yellow and blue reminders of his attention. He wanted Crane to remember this — him.

Crane let his eyes slip shut, arching his head back and stretching his neck out, but leaving his mouth stubbornly shut as if he knew that Bruce wanted to hear what sounds he'd make. Thankfully, Bruce was very good at multitasking. With no small amount of nervousness, he removed the hand he'd kept on Crane's chest and dragged it down lower, dropping it to palm at his cock, rubbing at him through the burlap material of his suit. Crane let out a shuddering breath — or would have if there was enough air in his lungs for him to do so — his mouth falling open in shock, before he bit down on his lip, his face screwed up in concentration.

And, watching Crane's face, watching the reactions that he caused, Bruce decided that wouldn't do.

Just because he didn't want him to talk, didn't mean he did want him to moan. Or beg, if the opportunity arose.

Bruce eased his hand up away from his dick, instead deciding to straddle him fully, resting himself against his thighs, rather than remain in his awkward half-crouch, bringing his free hand to rest against Crane's face. He trailed his fingers along his cheek, skimming under his eyes, dragging down the slope of his nose. He loosened his hold on his neck at the same time, not by much, but enough to serve as a brief refrain, enough for Crane to catch his breath.

Slowly, he moved his thumb further down Crane's face, pressing it against the corner of his mouth, then to the center, pushing his lip down. He held it there for a moment, the pad of his thumb barely grazed by his teeth, his breath warm and fast and just enough to make him woolly-headed. Then he removed his hand entirely, moving up higher again to settle on his forehead, brushing his fingers through his hair — a moment of misplaced tenderness — before yanking on it again, pulling hard enough that he could feel the vibrations of the groan that Crane kept buried in his throat. He pushed down on his neck harder again, tugging on his hair at the same time, before bending the rest of the way down and slotting his mouth over Crane's.

There was nothing gentle about the way they kissed. It was all teeth, with Bruce pressing their lips together hard enough to bruise and Crane shaking slightly with lack of air, but not making any effort to pull away. It was messy too, messier than any of the kisses he'd ever had — messier than Tommy when they were clubbing, locked in a grimy bathroom stall, and trying to swallow each other's tongues, messier than Selina when they were on a rooftop under the stars drinking Coors Light and missing each other's mouths, messier than Jeremiah, though he didn't dwell on that, hardly liked to think of it at all. Bruce's mouth was wet with spit, both his own and Crane's and when he felt Crane grab at his shoulder, pulling him closer, he gave up all pretenses of dignity, letting his body settle over his entirely, the heat in his stomach flaring up and spreading through his veins.

He kept kissing him. The hand he kept on his neck gradually tightening until Crane's shaking became more frantic, his limbs starting to jerk, the groans that escaped him, tinged more and more with pain, swallowed by Bruce as quickly as they came. He kept tightening his grip, not entirely sure what was driving him other than the white-hot flash of satisfaction racing through his veins, the fog in his head growing with every microsecond that passed. Crane was twisting underneath him. His heartbeat was pounding under Bruce's fingers. The hand he put on his shoulder lost its gentle touch, his nails were digging into the silk of his shirt.

Then, right when the moment was becoming unbearable —  right when Bruce was on the verge of doing a terrible thing — sense restored itself.

He took his hand away from Crane's neck entirely. His fingers were sweaty and shaking and cramped, the joints cracking as he flexed them out. At the same time, he broke their kiss, dropping his head against Crane's shoulder, trying to catch his own breath. As the fog in his head cleared away he was left startlingly aware of the way his own arousal had built up, leaving him half-hard, his cheeks flushed.

Crane was still moving desperately under him. It was flatteringly, maybe, but Bruce needed him to be still. He needed a moment for himself, a moment to process all that had happened — all that he had caused, Unthinkingly, he pushed his hips down. His breath caught at the brief moment of friction, a half-second of relief, and before he knew it, he was grinding into him, his eyes sliding shut in pleasure as Crane's hips rolled upwards, trying to go faster than the tempo Bruce set.

Crane made a pretty picture beneath him. His eyes were watery, half-lidded, and his mouth was red and kiss-bruised, and, as they rocked into each other, Bruce pressed his lips against his neck, against the ring of marks he'd left, biting into the sensitive skin.

He rolled his hips down again, too caught up in his own pleasure, the continually growing, slick, white-hot heat boiling in his stomach, to focus on anything but the feel of the body pressed against him. Then Crane keened, high and needy, and Bruce's attention snapped back to him. He remembered the whine he made earlier, locked behind teeth, and he remembered the arrogant slant of his jaw, and suddenly all the pieces fell into place.

He pushed himself up again, away from the warm skin of Crane's neck, putting them so close together that their noses were nearly touching. Everything about the moment they were sharing should have felt obscenely intimate, but looking down at him Bruce felt strangely at ease. Crane looked absolutely wrecked, with his flushed cheeks and his sweaty hair and his swollen mouth that Bruce had to restrain himself from kissing again. He had a plan. Sort of.

Once more, he ground himself into Crane. He took his time, moving slowly, cataloging his reaction — his fluttering eyes and the lip he caught between his teeth. It made Bruce's blood sing, electricity through his veins. He licked his lips. "Do you want me to go faster?"

He wanted him to work for it. He wanted to flush already in his cheeks to darken, spreading down until it was hidden by his burlap suit. He wanted him to fall apart completely under his hands. He wanted so much that he ached with it, the yearning embedded into his bones.

Crane's voice, when he answered, was completely shot, raspy and low, and even as he squirmed, he managed a small glare. "You're a— _ah_ — a bastard."

"Is that a no?" Bruce asked, forcing himself to be still.

Crane shifted beneath him uncomfortably, sounding delightfully close to whining. "More— go _faster_."

He tilted his head, consideringly. "Ask me nicely."

"Asshole. You absolute fucking—" Bruce rolled his hips down again, and he cut himself off with a strangled groan. His blush was glowing. "Will you pretty, pretty _please_ go faster?"

"I could," he agreed, starting to grind into him again, moving as slowly as he could without driving himself insane. Crane dropped his head back down against the floor, another soundless, needy cry falling from his mouth. He felt flushed himself, half a stranger. He wondered if he'd recognize himself in a mirror. "But I want you to tell me what you want. Go ahead."

"Who would have thought" Crane managed to get out, his voice straining, "That you would be such a— _hn_ — sadist? You know what I want. I want you to move." He rolled his hips up to emphasize his point.

Bruce picked up his speed, his own eyes fluttering in relief. "Like that?"

"Yes. _Yes_. Keep doing that, nice and fast and—" He arched his head back as Bruce did as he wanted, eyes slipping shut, his hips moving frantically. "More. _More._  C'mon, baby. God, you need to— _fuck!_ "

Pushing himself up and away from his body, Bruce resumed his position straddling his thighs, dragging one of his hands back down to Crane's cock, rubbing at him through his suit He was obviously hard, and having the proof that he was the cause of Crane's arousal sent a thrill through his veins. "Tell me what you want."

Crane's legs were shaking beneath him, a barely present quiver. The whine was fully present in his voice as he thrust into Bruce's palm. "You already know what I want."

"But I still want you to tell me. Is that too much to ask for?"

A beat passed as Crane seemed to fight with himself, his face beautifully red. When he answered, he sounded like he was spitting nails. "Touch me."

Bruce lifted his hand away entirely, reveling in the needy cry the act elicited from Crane. "Ask me nicely and we'll see."

"You're such an assho—" he cut himself off with a moan when Bruce pressed his palm against his dick again, rubbing over him with more pressure than was probably comfortable, not that Crane seemed to mind.

"You want me to touch you, but you won't even say please. Seems kinda rude, don't you think?"

His face was screwed up in absolute pleasure, his neck stretched as far as it could go, his body twitching. The longer Bruce ground his hand against him, the more desperate he became. "Please touch me. Don't stop. Don't stop."

Once again, Bruce picked up his pace, rocking himself against Crane's thighs as his own desire grew. "What was that?"

"Please. _Please_ , touch me." Crane was moving against him frantically, words spilling from his lips without comprehension. He was completely lost in the throes of his need. Bruce tried to commit the look on his face — one of sheer unstoppered want — all because of Bruce — to his memory. "God, please. _Please_ , I need—"

"What do you need?"

"Touch me. Please, touch me. Under the— go under my suit. Please, I need you to— _God_."

Bruce found himself grinding into him even faster, biting his lip as he listened to the way Crane was begging him. "Say my name— use my name when you ask me. Show me you mean it."

"Fuck, _please_. I'm so close, okay, I'm so— _okay_. Okay, Bruce. Please, Bruce. _Bruce_. God, please, Bruce. Just touch me. I— _Bruce_."

He kept rubbing him up and down, feeling himself grow even harder listening to his name falling from Crane's mouth. He said his name like it was some divine thing, some powerful thing. It was more than a name coming from him, it was something close to absolution. The moment was closing in on him, wrapping his head in a fog, and stealing the air from his lungs, and he wouldn't have traded it for anything.

"You need me to touch you, don't you? You need me to grab your cock. That's what you want, right? Is that what you want, Jonathan?"

At the sound of his name, Crane let out a wordless cry, his hips jerking up once, his back arching from the ground, his eyes sealed shut as he came undone completely. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. With squinted eyes the look that painted Crane's face could have been mistaken for horror instead of pleasure, but, Bruce supposed, in the end, they were the same thing.

For a long moment, Crane stayed still, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face slack and wrinkle-free. He looked surprisingly young — and far less arrogant — when he was like that. Bruce, very carefully, shifted his weight, all too aware of his own arousal as he moved to better accommodate Crane and the new sensitivity he had to have been dealing with. Slowly, he moved his hand away from his dick, settling it on his own thigh, wondering, not for the first time that night, what exactly he'd gotten himself into.

Crane was, Bruce was starting to understand, a force of nature.

Maybe something about his fixation with such a primal emotion like fear helped transform him, or maybe it had something to do with his naturally indomitable will, whatever the case was, Bruce couldn't help but be fascinated by him. He couldn't help but hope that Crane felt the same way towards him, equally as intrigued by the connection he could feel brewing between them.

Crane was also, Bruce decided as he twitched, still uncomfortably hard but unwilling to do anything about it now that he'd already gotten him off, unfairly attractive, even sweaty and panting, with fresh bruises ringing his neck like a chain. His hair looked impossibly soft, despite its unkemptness, and it was without thought that he reached out and started petting it, the rhythm to it helping calm him down.

Crane opened his eyes — shockingly blue and surprisingly clear for someone who had just orgasmed — and looked at Bruce with far too much calculation to put him at ease. "Well, I'll be," he said, at long last, stretching his legs out as much as he could with Bruce still on top of him. "I never would have thought you'd have had it in you, baby."

He couldn't think of a response to that, all of his thoughts fizzling away as reality began to settle back over him, harshly. What could he even say to that? What did Crane want to hear? He didn't know. He was having trouble processing everything, so instead, he just focused on staying as still as possible, wishing, desperately, that Crane would stop his squirming, and worked on keeping his breathing shallow. Shame coursed through his veins, sluggish and somewhat dulled by his maintained arousal. Had he gone too far?

"Something else on your mind?" Crane asked in faux-concern, the barest hint of a laugh in his voice. He was still squirming beneath him, and it was then that he realized Crane wasn't just trying to get comfortable, but that he was purposefully pushing himself against Bruce.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked, feeling vaguely panicked, doing his best to ignore the way Crane was grinding his thigh against him. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed.

"Haven't you heard?" Crane asked, sounding far too pleased with himself. "Turnabout's fair play."

Then, in a move that left Bruce disoriented and blinking, Crane bucked his hips up, sending Bruce sliding down to settle on his stomach, locking his legs behind his back and grabbing his upper arms, all in an effort to roll them over smoothly, so it was Bruce underneath him, with his back on the unforgiving marble floor, and Crane looming above, his knees slotted on either side of Bruce's hips, bracketing him in.

Crane pushed one of his hands on the ground by Bruce's head, using it to support his weight as he leaned down over him, his face entirely too close, taking up his entire field of vision. Bruce could only stare at him, wordless and slightly stunned, hoping for a kiss, for a touch, for relief of any kind.

Crane brought his free hand to Bruce's chin, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he held it, stroking along his jawline with more care than he probably deserved. After a moment, he worked his fingers higher, tracing them around his lips, tapping a melody only he could hear against the soft skin. Bruce's heart was jumping in his chest.

"You didn't think I'd leave you all on your lonesome after you lent me such a helping hand, did you, baby?" Crane cooed down to him, at least halfway mocking, his fingers still tapping on Bruce's lips. "Oh, you poor thing. You seem kinda riled up."

Bruce opened his mouth — to what end he hadn't fully decided yet — but before he could get any words out, Crane shoved three of his fingers in passed his lips, his nails scratching the softest part of his palette. He gagged around the fingers, sputtering soundlessly even as Crane pushed them up and down and side to side, dragging his nails along his tongue. It was uncomfortable, degrading, and, despite all that, Bruce didn't try to spit them out.  

At the same time that he pushed his fingers into his mouth, Crane also lowered himself from his crouch, straddling his thighs instead, his free hand moving down to Bruce's zipper. He made quick work of both his pants and his underwear, shoving both down carelessly, letting them bunch up. As soon as his clothes were out of the way, Crane grabbed his dick, hard and aching already, and gave him a lazy stroke. There was no build up. No begging or bribing, just a soft hand on his dick, making his neck arch back as he moaned around the fingers in his mouth.

He jerked his hips up, silently urging Crane to do more. He needed more — more friction, more speed — either — both.

Crane just hummed, pushing his fingers even farther into Bruce's mouth. Again, he gagged, but slowly he was starting to get an idea of what Crane wanted. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking them further in and out, trying his best to mimic a blow job. There was something oddly soothing about the fingers in his mouth, something tethering to it, almost. It was nice to be able to focus his attention on something outside of the awful, twisting heat that kept building low in his stomach and the cool feeling of Crane's hand on his dick.

As he sucked, Crane smiled down at him, his smile far too wide, showing far too many teeth. He wasn't even pretending to be gentle with him anymore. He squeezed his hand down Bruce's cock, stopping at the head, leaving him writhing beneath him, desperately trying to get his hand to move.

"Look at you," Crane said, his voice still gratingly sweet. "You're being such a good boy for me. Waiting so patiently." He let go of Bruce entirely, letting it rest over his cock, not touching him, but close enough for Bruce to grind up into him. "You're such a needy little thing, aren't you? I'm not going to do all the work for you, baby. C'mon, I know you know what to do."

Bruce gagged again as Crane pushed his fingers even further back into his mouth, near his throat. He could feel drool leaking out the sides of his mouth as Crane worked his fingers in all the way to the bottom knuckle. His cheeks were heated up in embarrassment, but Crane didn't say anything to him. He just kept watching him, a knowing look gracing his features as Bruce started to grind against his hand. He could hardly move his hips fast enough, and Crane's skin was too soft, but, sure enough, in what had to have been only a few seconds, the world shuttered around him, fracturing as his back arched up, his body suddenly boneless, his mouth open in a soundless cry.

Crane removed his fingers, wiping them off against his burlap suit with a sort of preformed fascination. Bruce could hardly care, too stunned to react to anything around him. The world, for once, felt quiet and unimportant.

"Such a good boy," Crane said, sounding pleased, before he lowered himself back over Bruce, dropping his head against his shoulder, pushing his face against his neck. He didn't do anything, he just laid there, letting his breathing even out, clearly more affected by what happened than he wanted to let on.

Bruce was too exhausted to worry about what the future held — what would happen after the post-orgasmic bliss wore off and they realized they were still in a war-torn Gotham, fighting differnent fights. He'd worry about that later.

For the time being, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

Later — once he'd dealt with the aftermath of his decisions — he would realize that it was the first night he'd slept dreamlessly since Jeremiah revealed his hand.

He would tell himself that it meant nothing.

It would be a lie. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as jeromevalseka!


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